Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
by jenben
Summary: JD's father dies. Please see the introduction.
1. Love Me When I'm Gone

**PLEASE READ FIRST**

This story is unusual not in its content, but in its context. I am not writing this for you.

It is my biased opinion that each writer is entitled to author a singular piece of personal prose. Often this takes the form of a "Mary-Sue," and rids the creator of his or her more immature tendencies to craft the perfect character; one who is abundantly qualified in every possible profession, as well as beautiful, rich, charming, poised, and whatever the author feels he or she lacks.

I'm taking my turn.

But not with a Mary-Sue.

This story is about JD's dad dying; it is a very personal story and _not_ like my previous _Scrubs_ fic. For me, it is an act of therapy and healing. If something strikes you as out of character, that's because it is. Much of this is me.

For these reasons, I have different expectations. You can choose to review or you can choose not to review. You can leave positive comments. You can flame. This will be the only author's note; no additional comments, explanations, or exhortations.

I appreciate your time and understanding. As always, I make no profit. A strong PG for language use. Thank you.

—your humble author

_To my father: I wish it could have been more._

Carl Bennett

1957-2003

* * *

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

My uncle called me first. He didn't have Danny's phone number and wasn't sure if it would be right to call mom. Besides, he thought I could handle it best since it comes with my job. Except _this_ doesn't come with my job. _This_ is the kind of thing that would floor even Bob Kelso

"JD, your Uncle Dave called and said to call him back ASAP," Turk yelled to me from his place by the answering machine.

I dialed Dave and waited impatiently. Calls from him were rare (had he _ever_ called me?), so I wondered what the special occasion was. The birthday he'd forgotten was months ago.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Uncle Dave, it's me."

"Oh…JD." Well that was enthusiastic. "JD, are you sitting down? I have something to tell you."

I stopped, suddenly nervous. Had my grandma died? She was quite old and sickly. I hoped that wasn't it. She was my favorite relative. Of course, it dawned on me, my father would probably call were that the case. So why was Dave calling instead? I sat down on my bed. "What's wrong?"

"JD, your father…he had a heart attack."

"_What_? What hospital is he—"

"He didn't make it, son. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

* * *

So, this is shock: Nothing.

I called my mom. She cried, but promised to tell her side of the family so I wouldn't have to. After we hung up, I rang Danny. Now, he had moved to London for a year to study bartending. English pubs are famous and he wanted the experience. I knew he'd be hard pressed to come home, but I never expected his response.

"Danny, dad…had a heart attack. He didn't make it."

"_What_? When—how?"

I repeated only what our uncle had told me. "Yesterday afternoon, at work, he collapsed. They tried to resuscitate him, but it was just too big. We'd have known sooner, except they didn't have any contact numbers. I don't know what to do."

There was a long silence and I almost thought we'd been disconnected when he finally replied, softly, "I can't come home."

"Huh?"

"I can't…I need to stay here."

"You _can't_ stay there. Dad's _dead_! You need to come home and help with arrangements and be with mom and say goodbye. Danny, I can't _do_ this on my own!"

"JD, if I come home, I could lose my job."

"How heartless _are_ they in England? Dammit, don't bail on me this time!"

There was a frustrated sigh on the other end. "Look, I just can't come home. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, JD, and I'll talk to you later."

He hung up. I stared at my receiver in shocked confusion, then slammed it back onto the base. Our dad was dead and he wasn't coming home? That _dick_! That selfish bastard! I hated him. And that was when I finally started to cry.

I packed my bag, trying furiously to wipe away any signs of tears, then stopped in the living room to let Turk know I was leaving.

"It'll be about a week."

"Is everything okay?"

Suddenly, I hesitated. I _wanted_ to tell Turk—my very best friend—what had happened, but I couldn't. Maybe I just needed some time to digest the information. Maybe I just didn't want any pity. Whatever the reason, my response was a lie. "My mom just needs some help. Y'know, with Danny in England, I'm the one she calls now."

"Aw, man, that sucks. Well, tell her I said hi and see if she'll bake any of those chocolate-butterscotch-marshmallow cookies. I _love_ those!"

I gave him a halfhearted smile and went to the hospital to get leave from Dr. Kelso. He wasn't very thrilled.

"You want _what_? An entire week?"

"Yes, sir, I have a family emergency I need to take care of."

"A week is entirely too long. Do you think this is some private practice where you can just up and go when you want to? You have responsibilities here and I'm not gonna let you shirk them."

I felt myself grow angry. Very angry. "Look!" I yelled, slamming my fist on his desk. "I have some bigger responsibilities to take care of right now and they do, in fact, come before you and your precious dollar sign. So give me the week that I need or fire me. Either way, I'm going."

Kelso looked me in the eyes and must have seen my rage. He grimaced, hating to find that tiny, infinitesimal soft spot giving in. "Fine," he growled. "Take your week. But you'd better not ask for any more time off _ever_."

I just nodded and left, with none of the satisfaction I might otherwise have felt.

* * *

I drove in silence. Well, I had the radio on, but the usual monologue I kept going deserted me. I was too shocked to even talk to myself. Before I knew it, I was pulling into my mother's driveway and mindlessly opening the door to my childhood home. An eerily familiar act so out of place given the circumstances.

"Mom? You here?"

She was. She sat in the living room with a stack of photo albums and a box of Kleenex. "He could be a real clown, your dad."

"Yeah, I know." I sat beside her and looked at some photographs of Danny's eighth birthday. Dad was there, sucking helium out of a balloon so he could talk funny, then walking around like a zombie, threatening us in that foolish voice. "I remember that year; he sucked on too much helium and passed out in the cake."

"I think you boys laughed the most at _that_. Have you talked to Danny?"

How on earth was I supposed to tell her about him? "Danny…he's having some trouble. He won't be able to come."

She stopped, stared at me, then nodded, but didn't say a word.

"Mom, I gotta go to Uncle Dave's house. He's gonna help me figure this stuff out and get arrangements made."

"Do you want me to come?"

I paused, suddenly very needy for my mother's company. "Would you, please?"

She gave me a sad smile and took my hand. "We are gonna get through this. Come on; let's get going."

* * *

Dave lived just under two hours away but, fortunately, only five minutes from grandma, so we stopped to see her first. Dad was grandma's youngest and least attentive child, as well as her second to die. I've seen a lot, being in the hospital—the gory, the ridiculous, the miraculous—but there is a truth universally acknowledged that no parent should ever out live his or her child.

"D'you wanna wake her?"

I nodded and left mom in grandma's modest living room/dining room/kitchen. "Hey, grandma," I said softly, easing my weight onto her bed. "It's JD."

"JD? JD." The first one was a question, the second a sort of sad confirmation. She struggled to sit up. "Hi, honey."

"Hi, grandma. How you doin'?"

"Okay."

Yeah, she was okay and Dr. Cox was gonna receive sainthood. But we left it at that. She asked how I was and I gave her the expected "fine." Yes, the old adage is true: Families who lack communication skills during tragedies together, stay together.

She came out to greet mom and the two chatted while I rang my uncle. Grandma decided (and there was _no_ arguing with grandma) that Dave could meet us at her apartment. I looked forward to seeing him, because he seemed to know a lot more than I about what had happened and what we could do. I didn't have the first clue.

"D'you want anything, grandma? Juice, coffee—whiskey?"

She chuckled. Thank _God_. "Actually, could you run over the pharmacy, Johnny? I have a prescription there to pick up."

I put on my coat and was out the door before anyone could say "escape."

By the time I returned, Dave and my Aunt Brenda were waiting in the living room. "Uncle Dave, Aunt Brenda."

"John."

I handed my grandmother the prescription and sat down across from Dave and Brenda, staring at them. Nothing like body language to convey a point.

"This is what I know: It was the end of the day and your dad, his boss, Tim, and a coworker were finishing up. Tim left for a few minutes and when he returned, your dad was on the floor." Well, that answered one of my questions; was dad alone when he died? Yes. "So, Tim started CPR and the coworker—Mike?—called 911. The EMTs thought they got his heart started, but it stopped again at the hospital. There wasn't much they could do. Your dad was a walking coronary."

"He never went to the doctor," my grandmother added in a voice which conveyed anger, grief, and ruefulness all at once.

Mom laughed softly. "Yeah, he was pretty damn stubborn. And don't even _think_ about putting vegetables on his plate. He was mostly a meat and potatoes guy. And Pepsi and beer."

And cigarettes, I thought to myself. How could they be so nonchalant? My stupid father had brought this on himself. He'd taken _himself_ away. Dammit! Damn him!…no. I didn't mean that.

"We should go."

Dave's voice brought me out of my reverie. "Huh?"

"We should go to your dad's work and the Robinson funeral home; a friend of mine buried his parents with them and said they do good work. By the way, your Aunt Amy and Uncle Bob are flying in tomorrow. Ma, you gonna be okay by yourself? D'you want me to call one of the kids over here?"

"I'll be okay."

They headed out and I followed, stopping to give grandma a squeeze on her arm and a smile. "We'll be back soon."

* * *

Soon, of course, is a matter of opinion, and we didn't return until dark. The time at dad's office was melancholy and confusing. I met Tim and filled out a few forms, then excused myself. Something outside had caught my attention. His car.

"You got his keys?" I asked my uncle who was loading dad's belongings into the SUV. Dave pulled them out and I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked away. Did he blame me for leaving mom and Aunt Brenda in the office? Should I be there, too? Did it matter?

The heat blasted over me as I opened the car door, but it was welcome, even in 90° weather.

Dad had owned this car since I entered sixth grade. Honestly, it should have been junked long, _long_ ago, but it held sentimental value; the first he ever bought new (how, I'll never know). And the last. I settled into the driver's seat and paused. So familiar. I'll give my dad credit for driving; he made a lousy parent, but I always trusted him behind the wheel. His driving stuck out to me growing up; now just a sad reminder that he'd never sit here again.

Dave knocked on the window a few minutes later. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah, I'll be out in a sec." I sat back and put my hands on the steering wheel, getting a feel for him. I looked at the tapes and cigarette boxes strewn about and mingled with candy wrappers. Why would he do this to me? On top of all the missed holidays, birthdays, band concerts, and life events, he would miss everything else. Abandoning me had left a hole I tried to fill with people like Dr. Cox and any other male role model. Now his death left…nothing.

* * *

"How're you doin', honey?" mom asked as we entered the funeral home.

"Okay, I guess. You?"

"I'm just here for you, baby; if you need anything."

Great. She was here for me. It's always easy to be there for someone. It's terrible to be the someone. Y'see, you're supposed to feel grateful to the helper for his or her moral support, but it's not like you're gonna fall down weeping and need to be carried to the hospital for valium…well…no, I had responsibilities. The truth is, unless their résumé includes, "able to raise people from the dead," no one can help.

A man in a suit approached and extended his hand. "I'm Paul Robinson; won't you have a seat?"

I was too numb to care that he looked like a used car salesman. Why wasn't this day over yet? I let Dave handle the things like what cards would be distributed and what had happened. I even let him decide to have a viewing. If they needed one for closure, so be it. I wanted a say only in two things: How much we would spend and the obituary.

"I don't want any flowery words; none of the "beloved son of" or "dearest friend to" stuff."

Paul looked at me as though I'd asked him to remove the first sentence of the constitution. "You _don't_ want that? It's pretty standard, y'know."

Why did he question me? Was there something in my voice that said, "although I clearly stated it _this_ way, I'm sure I can be persuaded to change my mind"? "Look, my dad just wasn't into that sort of thing. It wasn't him."

"Oh…kay. Well, then, I'll leave you along to look at the prices and make a decision. If you have any questions, just let me know."

"All right," Dave started, picking up the price sheet. "Do we want to bury him or cremate him? The cremation's cheaper."

Dad's life insurance policy left me all of $10,000. That was it; no 401K's or stocks. "Cheap is good."

"Cremations it is, then. When do we want to have the viewing? Friday? Saturday?"

"Friday." It was sooner and I just wanted it to all be over.

"What time? I mean, on a Friday, people will have work. If we start at noon, some can come on their lunch hour; if we finish at eight, everyone can be there after they get off. Sound good?"

Come on their lunch hour? Well, that was a sure way to lose their appetite. "Sure."

Mr. Robinson joined us and wrote everything down, then took us to look at caskets for the viewing. Would we ever get to leave? _Ever_?

"And this model…"

I tuned him out and started looking at coffins. Coffins, coffins everywhere. Some quite stylish. I could see why a vampire might choose to sleep in one. Did any come with CD players? Antilock brakes? Maybe a mini-fridge? There were other objects in the room; tombstones, urns, memorial plates, suits and dresses (apparently, not all corpses come equipped with the right clothes), and even little pendants to hold ashes on a necklace. Hm…creepy?

"Which one's cheapest?"

"Well, this—"

"Good, we'll take it."

"But you should know that this casket doesn't go to the crematorium. We place the deceased in a cardboard box and then the box in the casket—it's like a rental for viewings."

Lovely. "Look, he's dead. I really don't think he's gonna care." Fed up, I finally turned to my uncle. "Can we go now?"

* * *

Considering the distance from my mom's house to grandma's apartment, we opted to spend the night there. I just couldn't stand the thought of leaving her alone. And mom, bless her, slept on grandma's floor to be near me, while I took the couch.

I woke up at five in the morning to the twitching of my left eye. It ticked all day yesterday and I got the distinct impression it was in no mood to stop.

Was it really less than 24 hours since I learned he died? It's as if my whole world just stopped with that one phone call. How surreal.

Mom wasn't there. Probably out for coffee or breakfast. That left me alone, comfortably, with time to reflect. Except I couldn't.

Shock is amazing, and not entirely unwelcome, but I needed to feel. Something. Anything. That's when the phone caught my eye, right next to the arm of the couch. I could call his apartment. I could dial his number and hear his voice on the answering machine. Hesitantly, I picked up the receiver: One. Area code. First three digits. Last four digits. Wait. Ring. Ring. Ring. Click.

"Hey, this is Sam. I'm not here right now, but if you leave your name and number after the beep, I'll get right back with ya." _Beep_.

I hung up, relishing the moment. I knew that voice. That was my dad's voice. In the quiet solitude of five a.m., I let my head fall back on the pillow and cried. I would never dial that number again.

Mom came in around seven with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. I turned down TVLand.

"Hey, kiddo. How you doing this morning?"

I was really starting to hate that question, even if it was coming from such a loving source. I _had_ to answer fine, because "numb, shocked, and twitchy" only invited more concern. "Okay. D'you get your morning fix?"

"Yep. You know—caffeine junkie. It's in the paper."

She handed me the news and I didn't know what to do at first. Her coffee addiction was in the paper? Then I figured out she meant his obituary. Wow, news really _does_ travel fast.

_DORIAN_

_Samuel James, Age 49. July 7, 2003. Father of Daniel and John. Son of Mary. Brother of David (Brenda) Dorian, Amy (Albert) Zillman, Robert (Katherine) Dorian. Friend and former husband of Barbara Dorian. Preceded in death by his father Donald and brother Donald Jr. Visitation Friday 12-8 p.m. at the Robinson Funeral Home._

I shrugged, handing the paper back to mom. At least they'd left out the flowery words. A thought popped into my mind, which I voiced aloud. "I wish Danny were here."

"I know, hon. It's hard. But probably for the best; Danny's never been good at handling situations like these."

You mean ones that involve responsibility? No kidding.

Sigh. The day was just getting started and I had a feeling it would be a long one.

* * *

I didn't say much on the way to my father's apartment. Nobody did. Somehow, though, I managed to say even less inside his home. We all took a few things from there. Mom took a couple of old pictures. Dave took the stack of Playboys hidden in the cupboard over the fridge. I took a look around (and an ashtray full of change). A strange apartment, maybe, but the same stuff. T-shirts, books I used to see in my parents' bathroom, same giant 80s TV he used as an entertainment center for his new, smaller one. And—what was that? Holy cow, he still had that disturbing, kid-sized plush rabbit from my fifth birthday. Why would he _keep_ that?

We didn't stay long, however. Amy and Bob were flying in from Florida and Minnesota respectively. It was the same with them, like everyone else. We said "hi," we hugged, asked how the other person was doing, and gave the same answer. Fine. Fine, fine, fine. Repeating a word sometimes makes it sound meaningless. After 24 hours, "fine" meant nothing to me.

The problem with having six adults and one SUV is that it leaves an odd man out. Dave and Bob sat up front; mom, Amy, and Brenda in the back. I got the rear. Or, rather, dad's stuff and I got the rear.

I sorted through photos, clothes, keys, and miscellaneous objects we'd taken. A photograph of me and dad going to trick-or-treat on the single occasion he took me. I was four and dressed as a pirate. He taught me about pirates and it's because of him that I like them so much now. You never think about stuff like that when someone's alive. You can't. I'll say this, though—pirates will never make me happy the way they used to.

I grabbed one of his shirts; a familiar one. It smelled just like him. Old spice and Bounce fabric softener. I put it on. But as we pulled into grandma's parking lot, I removed the shirt. I look a lot like dad, and I don't want grandma thinking I'm him. How c

* * *

ruel would that be? Still, I carried it in and when I glanced over at mom, she gave me a knowing smile and I took comfort knowing she knows I'm not fine.

We spent that night at a hotel nearby instead of gram's apartment. Mom just couldn't take the floor and I needed a real bed. I was so tired. Exhausted. Drained. There are two kinds of weary: physical and emotional. I'd got five hours of sleep and spent the whole day dealing with my dad's death. By nine, I could barely think coherently.

"How you holdin' up?"

"Tired."

Mom sighed. "No doubt. It's been a long couple days."

"I'm angry," I replied, almost out of the blue. Somehow, though, she was expecting it. How do mothers do that? I think—secretly—they can read minds. It freaks me out.

"You have every right to be."

"Y'know, I told him—maybe six months ago—that he should take some vitamins and he said I sounded just like Dave. It's his own damn fault for dying. His dad had a heart attack, too. But did that stop him from smoking and drinking? He never even saw a doctor except me and he never took my advice. Whatever happened to following doctor's orders? You know he wouldn't even let me take his blood pressure? He was such an idiot!"

Mom sighed again, but I liked the sound of it. The word "fine" deflects reality and avoids any discussion, but a sigh is telltale. You know something's wrong with a sigh. "Your father epitomized stubborn. It had to be his way or no way. That's how he lived his life, JD, and it's okay to be angry at him for that. Just remember that your anger isn't going to bring him back or punish him for leaving." She put a hand on my shoulder and I felt the tears well up. "Honey, you are a loving person. You love your dad despite his leaving you as a kid. You love him despite his stupid choices later in life. And you will continue to love him even while you acknowledge his faults. When someone dies, real love isn't glossing over their flaws and remembering only the good; it's accepting the positive and negative in a person and loving them anyway."

How had my mom got so wise? It must have been from dealing with my father for so many years.

"Good night, mom."

"Good night, JD."


	2. I've Seen the Way It's Got to End

The following morning I woke up at a much more reasonable hour. We were going to meet everyone for breakfast but, per usual, Dave was running late. So far, 40 minutes late. I ran out to a vending machine and bought some food in the form of a Twix bar; deciding not to spoil my appetite with any real food, I had candy, instead. Tasted great.

We had one of those fancy breakfasts (eventually, when Dave showed up) of eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, and pancakes topped with fruit and whipped cream. Extra whipped cream. Mmm—right out of the can is so good. One day, I'm going to take a bath in the stuff.

"So, how's grandma?"

"The usual—kinda loopy. She thought it was Sunday."

Sunday? But it was Thursday.

"Are we sure she doesn't have Alzheimer's?"

"Probably just the stress."

Amy glanced over at me after a bite of food. "She said Danny isn't coming back from England. I can't believe any bar owner over there would be so cruel as to force a son to work when his dad's died."

"Can't trust the British; all the guys are gay, you know," Bob said wisely.

I nearly choked on my chocolate milk (with whipped cream). Had he really just said that? "Um, Uncle Bob, how is that possible? The whole nation would cease to exist."

"Well, y'know, that Prince Charles is. Said so in the newspaper that he and his butler were…y'know…like him and that bowel lady."

Ay, yes. The Enquirer. Because inquiring minds are really stupid. I didn't say anything and mom just rolled her eyes.

After breakfast we were off to Wal-Mart to find some decent viewing clothes. When I die, if anyone should choose to view me, I'd like it to be naked. That's how I came into the world and that's how I'll go out.

The only problem was, when we got to the store, my stomach began to ache. Obviously, I'd been pretty foolish in my breakfast choices, but this was different. This was _bad_.

Sitting in the Wal-Mart men's room, my thoughts began to pound furiously. Worries, fears, and tension in my mind descended into my stomach, and an overwhelming anxiety threatened to swallow up my sanity. Perhaps this sounds melodramatic, but let me be the first to tell you that a panic attack is a dramatic thing. No matter what, I just could not quell those nameless fears. In desperation, I pulled out a single prescription form from my wallet.

I made it outside to my mom and begged for a pen.

"Are you okay, sweetie?"

"Mm…no. Here, take this to the pharmacy and have it filled; bring it back ASAP."

She looked down. "Xanax?"

"Please just do it."

"Okay; I'll be back."

I raced into the bathroom again and waited. And did other stuff, but that's not polite conversation. Amazingly, mom returned with the drugs and walked them _into the men's room_.

"Whoa, lady, y'know this is for guys only, right?"

"Oh, calm down; it's nothing I haven't seen before—maybe a little smaller, though. JD, honey, where are you?"

I heard myself answer. Why did I sound so meek? "D'you get it?"

"Yep." She handed the pill bottle and a cup of water under the stall. "I hope this'll help. Your Uncle Dave and the rest went back to your dad's apartment. We can join them whenever."

Join them? No! I couldn't leave the bathroom. The only other place that sounded reasonable to what, I must say, was a very troubled mind, was home. "I just wanna go home."

"Home?"

"Please, mom. Just home."

"Okay."

Five minutes later and I could leave the bathroom, but only to wander the aisles. My gut feeling told me to walk around and burn off some of the extra adrenaline from that lovely fight or flight instinct. After another twenty minutes of pacing the home and garden section (which, in retrospect, seems kinda stupid since I don't _own_ a home or garden), I decided I could leave.

Sadly, even the ride home was eventful. Mom, in her rush, ran a yellow light at a busy intersection and promptly got pulled over. I thought she might kill the cop.

"License and registration, please."

"Officer, my son is sick and I'm trying to get him home."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's a very dangerous intersection you just ran. You were going too fast and the light was yellow."

She grit her teeth. "You don't understand; my son's stomach is sick and his father just died. All he wants is to get home. These are special circumstances," she argued while handing over the registration papers. He didn't even bother to respond, but went back to his car. A few minutes later and he returned with her information and a ticket.

"Look, ma'am, safety is important no matter what. I'm sorry your son is sick and his father died, but you could have caused an accident. It was reckless driving."

Uh-oh. Now he'd pissed her off. "You listen here, officer—" she checked the ticket for his name "—Zloblatski: My son is ill. We are grieving. This ticket is both unfair and uncompassionate. I realize that may be a troublesome intersection, but I _know_ your actions are unwarranted. Your chief will be hearing from me!"

He nodded and walked away, but obviously didn't care. And why should he? I'll bet _his_ dad was still alive.

Mom drove away angry—righteously so, in my opinion—and I started to nod off. Xanax is a hypnotic and will send anyone off to La-La Land. Unfortunately (fortunately?), it's also an amnesic, so I have only the vaguest memories of speeding onto the highway and no idea how I got into my bed. But that's where I found myself some eight hours later as the voices of two old high school friends called from my doorway.

* * *

"JD?"

"Hey, you awake?"

I stirred from my dreamless sleep. "No."

Suddenly, an extra two bodies jumped onto my bed, so I opted to face them instead of pretending to sleep.

I'd known Luke and Simon since freshman year of high school, but I didn't remember either of them being psychic. How did they know I was home? "What are you doing here?"

"Your mom called us." Simon pulled some stuff out of a bag as he talked. Were those…? They were! Candy necklaces, the eight-ounce cans of Coca-Cola, and miniature Reese's peanut butter cups (they have the perfect ratio of chocolate to peanut butter). He handed everything to me. "We're really sorry, man."

They knew. Of course they knew. Mom had called them to comfort me. The only problem was, I didn't know if I wanted that comfort. It seemed too much liked pity. Then again, at least she'd call exactly the right people; Luke's mom died his senior year of high school, so he could empathize.

I sat up. "Thanks, guys." Silence ruled for thirty seconds before I couldn't stand it anymore. "This blows."

Simon bowed his head, but Luke looked me right in the eyes. "Yeah, it does."

"How d'you do it?"

"I don't know. You just…do."

We talked about nothing very important—our days in school, the stupid things we'd done during those days, the stupid things we'd done _after_ those days. Of course, I put all the necklaces at once and they dug into the peanut butter cups. My friends didn't stay long.

"How d'you guys know I like candy necklaces?" I asked as they were leaving.

"Are you kidding? JD, you wore one to school every day our sophomore year. Half the school thought you were gay."

"Really? Maybe that's why I couldn't get a date that year."

* * *

The day of the funeral. Deep breath. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and wondered if I were too casually dressed. Dark jeans and a black shirt. Dad'd never been real big on dressing up and, frankly, why wear uncomfortable clothes for an eight hour viewing of his corpse?

Oddly enough, we were the first to arrive (mom being chronologically challenged, it was something of a miracle). Paul greeted us and seemed less like a used-car salesman. He led us into the viewing area, already laden with flowers and some portraits and—_BAM_! There was my dad peacefully lying in a coffin.

"Fuck."

It just came out of my mouth as I turned away. Paul stepped aside and apologized for the suddenness or not preparing me or whatever he'd done wrong. But I wasn't listening—I was too busy walking out and being shocked.

How could that be my dad? It looked just like him, only serene. I'd never been to a viewing before. They suck.

The problem, I would later discover, was that the image of him dead in a casket conflicted with the image of him _not_ dead and _not_ in a casket. I closed my eyes and imagined him reading the paper, channel surfing, joking around, or behind the wheel. Then the thought of him in the casket returned and ruined every other memory. I tried again, recalling the last time I saw him, playing catch as a little kid, and even his aloof patheticness when he had to bum off me. Yet, when I was done, my mind flashed right to the viewing of his face. That peacefully dead somnolence his sealed eyes conveyed. I started twitching again.

Paul led us to their basement lounge where mom and I sat down. "You okay?" she asked.

"It's just too real. Or unreal? I wasn't ready."

"Yeah, that was a…shocker."

"Viewings suck; and dad's family is insane to want one." A disturbing thought occurred to me. "You don't think that insanity is genetic, do you?"

After a few minutes composing myself, I decided to head back up. I couldn't just spend the next eight hours hiding in a basement/kitchen/lounge/smoking room. Someone was bound to get suspicious I'd gone off to play dress up with the stiffs.

Composure, it would turn out, came pretty readily for most of the day. Mingling, thanking people, accepting condolences—I did it all without shedding a tear. In fact, I smiled quite a bit. Oh, not a real smile; a funeral is kinda like a hospital: You do what you have to do, when you have to do it, and you don't give it a second thought.

But before the guests came, as I wandered the viewing room looking at pictures, I took some time to think. There was dad at Dave's first wedding. Dad at his own. Dad playing with a baby—my cousin, I think. Dad bowling. Dad knocking back a beer. Oh, one with me! I vaguely remembered that trip to the carnival. Didn't he lose me there…?

Ah, and flowers. Flowers from his work, flowers from Aunt Amy's jerk husband who opted not to come (even though dad had been the only one in the family who could tolerate Uncle Jeff), flowers from Uncle Dave's work and his first wife. All of them were pretty and expensive. I wish dad had liked flowers.

I finally stopped in front of him and stared at his face. Down to the neck, arms, chest. There were his hands, big and strong. Or maybe they weren't. I only stood an inch lower than he, but always felt knee-high. Were my hands as big as his now? I wasn't about to find out.

I looked at his face and head for a long time, noticing with great sadness the stitches. Suddenly, the knowledge of what the doctors had done with his body struck me. And autopsy.

Clean. Photograph. Jab syringe into femoral artery and jugular for blood samples. Y-incision. Tear back skin. Cut away muscle and fat. Break ribs. Pull out organs. Weigh, cut, study, and take samples from the organs. Cut scalp and place over face but do not remove from head. Saw off exposed skull cap. Remove, weigh, cut, and study brain. Replace skull cap and pull scalp back on. Take plastic bag containing brain, heart, kidneys, liver, spleen, small and large intestine, stomach, gall bladder, etc., and place into chest/abdominal cavity. Suture. Put body in cooler. Wash up. Crack a few jokes to ease the sense of mortality.

I wanted to find the doctor who had done all that and hit him. My dad was not just another dead guy; he was my father, you bastard!

"JD?"

I jumped, surprised by my uncle's presence. When had he shown up? "Hey."

"He looks pretty good, huh? Nice make-up job."

"Yeah." If you don't mind the fact that he's _dead_, you freak! "Where's Aunt Brenda?"

"Bringing your grandmother, so it could be a while. I wanted to get here before and make sure everything's in order. You gonna give a eulogy?"

"No, I don't think I can."

"You should."

I looked at him, but couldn't find the guts to say, "No, you controlling know-it-all; you can take your advice on what to do at my own father's funeral and shove it up your ass."

Bob and Amy joined us and also commented on how nice their dead brother looked in his realistic make-up. Was I honestly related to these people? As they talked, though, I realized they weren't seriously impressed with dad's new Estée Lauder look; they didn't have anything else to say. This was their way of coping, just like mine would be disappearing to the basement lounge once an hour.

To my shock, people were showing up. And not just a few. By the end of the day, as I would later learn, over 100 people sighed the little people-signing-book. But none of them were the person for whom I was most concerned: Grandma Dorian.

Dad had never been the best dad by any stretch, but Grandma Dorian was one of my favorite people growing up. Feisty, opinionated, stubborn—your non-traditional grandmother in a nutshell. How would she handle this? After all, dad was her baby.

I wandered outside, lost in thought, only to find Aunt Brenda helping grandma out of the car and into her wheelchair. I forced a smile on my face and made my way over.

"Hey, grandma. Nice make-up."

"Oh, thank you," she said, patting my hand.

I turned to Brenda. "How's she doing? She _looks_ pretty together."

"Yeah, not too bad. Took her forever to get ready."

We talked and pushed her into the funeral home. For a July morning, the weather had turned cool. We stopped at the door to the viewing room. I didn't want her to go in. I didn't want her to see my father—her son—in a casket. More than anything, I didn't want to see her seeing him.

We wheeled her up and as soon as she saw his face, she let out this sob that almost tore my heart out. Agonizingly arthritic, she nearly jumped out of the chair and reached for him, kissing his forehead. I had to turn away and wipe my own tears, unable to look any longer. There are some things even doctors can't handle.

Dutifully, I stayed by her while people gave their condolences. Once I knew she was comfortable, though, and others had their eyes on her, I went back to the basement. Surely it couldn't get any worse.

Right. That's like saying a thunderstorm can't get any worse before a tornado hits.

My uncle gave the eulogy to a packed house. Where had all these people come from? Did it matter? It's not like I knew my dad well enough to know his friends. Besides, those people were of no concern. All I could think about were my dad in the casket and my family next to me. And Dave's eulogy. I remember sobbing while he spoke and wishing I could run back to the basement. I remember Grandma Dorian weeping at the loss of her son. I even remember Aunt Amy holding my hand and Grandma's hand the entire time. But what I don't remember are Uncle Dave's words. Maybe, at times like that, it's not what's said that matters, but who's there. And who isn't.

I miss my dad.

* * *

Afterwards, everyone filed out. Some passed his casket and crossed themselves, which I found odd, since dad was about as interested in religion as a piece of broccoli. Eventually, the only people in the room were Dave, Brenda, Amy, Bob, Grandma, mom, dad, and I. We sorted through flowers—so and so wanted this one and another person wanted that one. I didn't want any. Dave handed me a folder with envelopes in it. Apparently, people had been putting condolences in a little box, some with money. The generosity and kindness wasn't lost on me, but it felt too much like a birthday than a funeral (although I'd never grossed that much on a birthday).

I wish I could say I took a few minutes to say goodbye to him. Alone. Look at his body one last time. But I was only too happy to get out of there. It was scary, unpleasant, and painful. The reception afterwards, at one of dad's oldest friend's, consisted of fried chicken, potato salad, chips, beans, and beer. A lot of people smoked. We didn't stay long.

And while life was about to go back to normal, it would never be the same again. As a great artist once sang, "I'm never gonna be the same again; I've seen the way it's got to end." My dad introduced me to that song.


	3. Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me

I spent a couple more days with mom, then went back to the apartment and my life. Turk asked if everything went okay with her and I told him it had. It wasn't a lie, technically. Part of me wanted to yell at him, "My dad died! He had a heart attack and I saw him in a casket with the stitches from his autopsy and he's probably being cremated as we speak! _What the hell happened_?" Instead I gave a fake smile, claimed exhaustion, and slipped into my room where I curled into the fetal position and cried. An hour later, I was asleep. After all, I had work in the morning.

Actually, it was pretty easy to fall into my routine and even pretend nothing was wrong. Well, not entirely I walked around like a zombie for a week, which made Eliot and Carla concerned. Both claimed I was more spacey than usual.

The stages of loss or tragedy are tricky, especially with a relationship like dad's and mine. I put a picture of him in my desk drawer, so every time I opened it I'd see his face. Otherwise, what did I have to make me think about him.? He had made a lasting impression, but more by _not_ being around than anything else. It's hard to get past denial when it feels like there's nothing to deny.

And anger. Reasonable anger. First, he'd left me of his own choice, and then his choices made him leave for good. What had he been thinking? You can't smoke two packs a day, knock back a six-pack a night, eat _only_ red meat and potatoes, and live past fifty. He knew that. He _had_ to know that. _Zygotes_ know that!

As I dezombified, denial gave way to moments of reality. Grief. The first snowfall reminded me it he wouldn't see it. Football reminded me that he would never see another game (or yell at the TV). A newspaper laying all over the place reminded me of his Saturday mornings on the floor, in front of the TV, reading.

I dreamt about him, too. Some were pleasant, where we'd be close and friendly, doing something odd, like grocery shopping. Some were traumatic, where he'd be having his heart attack and everything I did only made it worse (assuming a heart attack _can_ be made worse). One stuck out, though. I was in the hospital, surrounded by people moving, trying to go from the entrance to a patient's room. Suddenly, I saw him standing ahead of me, looking right into my eyes. I pushed through everyone to reach him, but he was gone. Or I rushed after him as he walked slowly away, only to lose him at the end of a hall.

The time I spent thinking about him almost always (for awhile) led me to his last minutes. I wasn't there, so all I have is my imagination. Imagination and questions. What did he feel? Tingling? Shortness of breath? Pressure? Pain? Did he call out for help and no one heard? After all, Tim found him unconscious. Did my dad even realize it was a heart attack? Did he know, right before the end, that he would die? Did he think of me? Did he feel peace? Regret? Sadness? Fear? Sorry, maybe? I especially wonder where he is now. But none of these questions, no matter how persistent, have any relevance because they can't have any answers.

Invariably, I round off by thinking about the future, as though the past isn't depressing enough. Maybe he did abandon me, but I would have liked any future grandchildren to know him. He could have been a better grandpa than dad. Or get to know whomever I marry one day. It's the little things, yes. But it's the big things, too.

* * *

For some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to tell anyone. I'm sure they noticed a mood change, and they made sure to ask if I was okay on a nearly daily basis. I kept coming up with excuses, since I could never make "oh, my dad died and I never told you" come out sounding right.

After six months, I began to feel myself moving from denial, anger, and constant fits of bawling to anger and weekly bawling—sometimes every other week. Fortunately, I had an excellent support system of my voice in my head and my mom. This saw me to just after the seven month anniversary, when I took a quick break from my shift and listened to voicemail messages outside, where my fingers went numb with cold. And a few others parts.

Eliot, Eliot, mom, Eliot, Grandma Dorian—_Grandma Dorian_? When had she learned to leave a voicemail message? This was the woman who wouldn't go near my laptop for fear of breaking it, apparently with her mental powers alone. I called her back and willed my teeth to stop chattering.

"Hey, Grandma, is everything okay?"

"Oh, Johnny, it's you. I just wanted to chat. How're you doing?"

"Good. On a break at the hospital. What's up with you?" _And please say it quickly or you won't have any great-grandchildren from me. _

"I'm sitting here watching my Law and Order, having a little ice-cream. Started thinking about your dad." She got quiet for a moment. "I sure miss him."

"I know. Me, too."

"I'll never forget the day I found out; and I'll never forgive the girl who told me—not as long as I live."

What? "What are you talking about? What happened?"

"I was watching my soapies when some girl from the hospital called. She asked me if I knew Samuel Dorian. I told her he's my son and asked if something was wrong—had he been in a car accident? You know your dad liked to drive fast. Well, she said, "No, he's dead." Just like that. "No, he's dead." I couldn't believe it. I'll never forgive her."

I was stunned. Shocked. _Furious_. Grandma talked a little bit more about random things, then let me go with a, "well, this is probably costing you an arm and a leg." But even inside the hospital again, I couldn't shake her words and my rage. After half an hour of giving patients five-percent of my attention, I decided to go be hurt and angry in the rarely used men's room. In other words, I ran away to cry.

That…_bitch_. I wanted to tell her that _her_ son had died and see how _she_ reacted. How could she hurt an old woman like that? And not just any old woman; my _grandma_. Not thinking, and in a fit of fury, I rammed my fist into the stall door, leaving a dent (on the wall…and possibly my hand). Great, if the Janitor ever found out, he'd kill me. Plus, my hand hurt.

I let myself cry until I was pretty sure I couldn't cry anymore. I cried so hard that my head hurt and my eyes looked like they'd just been washed with soap. How could I convince people I hadn't blubbered like an infant? Allergies? Mouth full of wasabi? Kneed in the—

"JD?"

Dr. Cox? Dr. Cox!

I spun around without thinking, thus letting Dr. Cox see I had cried.

He looked supremely uncomfortable. "What're the tears for, Gretch? You didn't kill anyone today."

Instead of answering, I just clenched my fists and started for the door. "Stress," I mumbled as I walked past

"Aw, is Newbie stressed? I bet this is about Barbie. Look, she's having dolphin sex, so get over it."

I was halfway out the door when I felt myself turn around to respond. "It's not Eliot, you arrogant jerk. I'm crying because my dad died seven months ago. Now I'm sure you can make fun of that by yourself."

I stormed out, surprised by my words. Making it to the nearest supply closet (and praying no one would barge in _there_), I closed the door and broke down in sobs _again_.

What was wrong with me? I tried to stop crying, but I couldn't—and they weren't little whimpers. These were full body, head-in-hands-choking-on-my-own-spit sobs. It took every ounce of willpower to not rock back and forth like a lunatic. Of course, Dr. Cox entered.

He just stood there for a moment, then closed the door and got down at my level. He grabbed my shoulders and I expected a verbal butt-kicking. Instead, he hugged me. Perry Cox. Hugged me. Where's a Rod Sterling monologue when you need one?

He stayed quiet and just sat there with me practically in his lap, crying into his scrubs like Eliot after a bad date.

"I'm sorry," I managed after a while, pulling out of his hug. I took a deep breath, smoothed back my hair, and grabbed one of the boxes of Kleenex in the closet. He let me blow my nose before standing up.

"C'mon, I just ended our shifts; let's go drink."

I followed him in silence to the bar across the street where he ordered a scotch and I had an appletini. Once we were sitting down, he gave me the Perry Look.

"First things first: You never tell anybody about this or the supply closet, got it?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Now, you don't have to talk about it if—"

"Heart attack. He was almost fifty. My brother never showed up, an evil woman told my grandma, and I can't figure out why I miss a guy who was never around for me."

Of course, he had me back up and I tell him everything. Everything I could remember, and I may have tossed in a little fiction (for example, the woman who told my grandmother may _not_ actually have horns coming out of her head and spend her Sundays at black Mass). He listened, but didn't say much. There wasn't much he _could_ say.

After a few hours, I lost my thunder. The day had drained me. Also, I was drunk. I know he must have taken me home and had somebody put me to bed, because that's where I woke up the next morning. Oddly, neither Turk nor Carla questioned me. I get the feeling he was instrumental in that, too.

Naturally, after some more time, I told Turk and Carla. I think he was a little angry that I didn't tell him before, and I can understand. He's my best friend; why shouldn't I trust him with something like that? Carla cried, empathizing with me. I let Eliot know, too. She cried, but that's pretty common.

* * *

There's a picture of my dad sitting, his elbows on the table and hands clasped in front of him. He's not smiling or frowning, just looking at the camera, waiting for the picture to be over. It was easy enough to not notice when he was alive, but now it feels like…like he's sort of still alive. Of course I know he's not. It's a picture. But the gaze is intense, as if he's looking _at_ _me_. Sometimes I talk to it. Sometimes I just stare at it.

They say that time heals all wounds.

I used to think that was a load of crap.

That's like saying, "one day, you'll be all better." Except, that healed wound still has scar tissue. A scab would probably be a better analogy; occasionally I pick at it and it bleeds. But I don't stop being sad—it's not like I ever get _happy_ thinking about my dad's death. Instead, I think time lessens all wounds. That's why I can look back with resigned sadness and acceptance. I love him, but he's dead. And week by week, month by month, that becomes less of a shock to remember. One day, maybe, it won't give me a hollow feeling in my chest. One day, I hope, his picture won't only remind that he died, but that he lived. One day, however, this will always remain true:

I miss my dad.


End file.
